


Apocraphy

by SenkoWakimarin



Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-12
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-04-08 23:14:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4324497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They forget.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apocraphy

**Author's Note:**

> written for 'emeraldongers' on tumblr for my story-a-day blog.

Crystal shines; that is the fact of things. But crystal is so much more than its shine, and humans forget that. They forget that crystal cuts.

They forget that crystal grows.

Humans get brittle and dull, fading as one watches with distressing quickness. Humans change; this is fact, and in the blink of an eye they are gone. This is truth, but there is so much more to a human than their mutability, and gems are quick to forget that.

They forget that humans evolve, that they turn ever to the light. They forget that their constant change is a strength, that they are ever learning, ever adapting.

They forget that humans, too, grow.

A child is hurt, and in pain and fear, really wounded for the first time, he curls up in the darkness as if it’s something hard and real that he can cling to.

The boy feels an ugly, bitter sense of betrayal, when he can think through the all-encompassing pain. He is even younger than his childlike face would indicate, but today he has taken deeply of the icy waters of Cocytus, and he has found the water of that treacherous river to be sour on the tongue indeed. He had seen a mother die today, and there was betrayal on that – they were warriors, he knew, but a mother was supposed to be immortal, supposed to stay free from harm.

Seeing her gems drop heavy into the sand was like feeling his own heart split; the look in her eyes as her physical form shattered still burning through the core of him. It was his fault she died. His fault, his fault. If he were bigger, or stronger, or more of a warrior, she wouldn’t have felt she needed to jump in front of him.

The darkness is frightening, but it’s better than waking. Waking will bring light and brilliant, alien politics he has nothing to do, that he can only scratch the surface of understanding.

“you have to wake up,” a voice says, and it is pink, pink in the darkness. “there’s lots to do today.”

It is his voice and it is not his voice. His thought and not his. Him-but-not, and this confuses him more. He is frightened and he is hurt, and he wants to cry but the him-not-him won’t allow it, flooding him with manufactured cheeriness.

How can one be two? How can two beings occupy the same exact space without overlap.

“there are people who need you,” the him-not-him voice says, and there impressions then, impressions of colors that mean  _friend_ , that mean  _family_.

He slept for a while. He knew what sleep was now: it was the time of the strawberry field. When he woke, berries burned to black ashes. Waking came with light; waking meant one of the other voices was nearby.

At some point he realized that his mind was not the only part of him that was active. There were extremities that didn't think, but that could do other things: move, grasp, tense, hold, feel. Part of this discovery was fueled by the fact that sometimes there were pains in distant parts of his body that he couldn't account for. Like his back

_how did he know it was his back?_

which cramped up a lot, especially after sleep. And his legs, which ached and burned.

These curiosities kept him occupied and provided a blessed distraction from the strawberry-voice and the deep voice that tried to speak to him when he was awake. But no matter how much he ignored the new voice, it kept coming back. He didn't know why, but he held a vague dread for the deep voice -- sensations flickered into vibrant life when it spoke, sensations of awe and terror, respect on some ancient part of him he doesn’t understand.

The deep voice made him scared in ways he couldn't explain... but for some reason, it always sounded angry, like it was still looking for someone to hurt, and he

_was there such a thing as a name?_

didn't know how to change that.

Then came the identity problem. He didn't have one; that was the problem.

He could identify other things, like the deep voice, the strawberry-voice, the back pain, the leg-ache. He flexs his mind as far as it would go and managed to name more basic things -- hunger, weariness, pain, love, fear, sadness. He knew these. There were words for them, he just can't remember what they were.

But when it came to self-identity, he knows nothing. Sometimes his stomach itches, and he thinks that has something to do with his name, if he has a name. But he doesn't know why. It was wretched, anguishing.

“you have to wake up,” the strawberry-voice insists.

 _I can’t_  he thinks  _lost self. lost identity._

“no,” says the strawberry voice. “never lost. you’re here, right here with me.”


End file.
